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    The Sinister Pig
    The Sinister Pig
    The Sinister Pig
    Ebook252 pages4 hours

    The Sinister Pig

    By Tony Hillerman

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    About this ebook

    Hot on the heels of his huge bestseller, The Wailing Wind, Tony Hillerman brings back Chee and Leaphorn in a puzzling new mystery

    The body of a well-dressed fellow, all identification missing, is found hidden under the brush on the Jicarilla Apache Reservation. The local FBI takes over from the Navajo Police Sergeant Jim Chee, and quickly has the case snatched all the way to Washington. Washington proves uncooperative and the case is deadended. When Joe Leaphorn, the “legendary lieutenant” of Hillerman’s Navajo Tribal Police discovers that Washington officials hid the body’s identity, lines surprisingly connect to the case he’s working on at exotic game ranch. A photograph she sends him tells Chee she is facing a danger he doesn’t understand.

    Hillerman produces a galaxy of unusual characters in this compelling novel that is sure to confound readers until the very last page.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 13, 2009
    ISBN9780061794766
    Author

    Tony Hillerman

    TONY HILLERMAN served as president of the Mystery Writers of America and received the Edgar and Grand Master Awards. His other honors include the Center for the American Indian’s Ambassador Award, the Spur Award for Best Western Novel, and the Navajo Tribal Council Special Friend of the Dineh Award. A native of Oklahoma, Tony Hillerman lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, until his death in 2008.

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    Reviews for The Sinister Pig

    4/5

    23 ratings12 reviews

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    • 4/5
      One of the better in the Leaphorn/Chee series. Like Hunting Badger, the seed of the idea behind the book is contemporary happenings -- Mineral/Oil Royalties due the tribes, oil, drugs. Hillerman takes the action to the AZ-Mexico border.
    • 3/5
      This is an oddity for Hillerman. The story starts in Washington, with people we do not know, ends up near the Mexican border, and is more violent than other Leaphorn/Chee books. Not very violent, but just more. I found it an uncomfortable read, borrowing too much from the headlines and maybe things Hillerman is not so familiar with.
    • 4/5
      This was our car book for the trip North and we finished in the two evenings after we got to Vallejo. I love not having cable TV up here—we read or listen to books for entertainment. This one had both Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn along with Bernie Manuelito. Hillerman obviously had a low opinion of some government officials and corrupt politicians. It was a lot of fun and intriguing.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      I did not exactly love or hate this book. It was just okay. This was the first Hillerman I have read. The Native American aspects were interesting, but there was a bit too much attention paid to geography for my liking. I think reading a book from the middle of the series may not have been the best method, since a history of the two main characters was constantly hinted at, but never fully explained in this novel.
    • 4/5
      Leaphorn and Chee team up to solve a mystery about drugs and corrupt Washington bureaucrats that involves smuggling of drugs through gas pipe lines under the Mexican/US border. Chee saves his girlfriend, Bernadette (Bernie) Manuelito, from the Washington drug lord and and solves the case.
    • 4/5
      Finally! Jim has quit being obtuse and might actually have a healthy relationship with someone who he can make a real life with! There wasn't much of a mystery to this one, but certainly the premise of smuggling drugs was intriguing.
    • 3/5
      This is not my favorite Hillerman book, seemed to have a bit of a rant about the "drug war" and all. However, it was a concise little story, not so much a mystery as a way to forward events in the life of Jim Chee. I enjoyed the read, even if I didn't feel it was one of his best mysteries.
    • 3/5
      Another good yarn from Hillerman. A good detective tale, but with a less explosive finale than usual, and with more new information about pipe technology than about Navajo culture.
    • 2/5
      Hillerman pulls in corrupt government and a corrupt millionaire from the East and sends Bernie off to become a Border Patrol. The dead body that starts the investigation is found on Navajo Tribal land but most of the action takes place near the Mexican border. Joe and Chee work together to solve this mystery and save Bernie’s life. Not one of Hillerman’s best—the ending is weak and Bernie is really saved by one of the villains having a change of heart.
    • 3/5
      Got this one for my birthday. There's something off about it, but I couldn't figure out what. I know the book feels oddly short. But I did giggle when I realized that Leaphorn and Chee are so similar to Sam Vimes and Captain Carrot of the Discworld. Like the Navajo version, which means Leaphorn is not quite like Vimes (although neither one of them is supposed to drink). But as I read Chee's sometime girlfriend Officer Manuelito describing him to her friend it sounded an awful lot like Angua describing Carrot."Honey, time to get smart. That man hurt your feelings. But he really likes you.""Oh yeah," Bernie said. "He also likes stray cats and retarded kids and..."I enjoyed Chee's interactions with his Hopi colleague too. And Officer Manuelito fits most of the famous requirements for a good female character-she even basically rescues herself from the people who try to kidnap her. But then she sort of agrees to give up being a cop and marry Chee. It's not that I don't want them to get married, I do, but I wanted her to stay a cop. If she ceases to be one, then one day she "won't understand him" and the author will have to break them up or something. Officer Manuelito is part of the Border Patrol and it's interesting to see the Navajo attitude toward illegal imigration as opposed to the "white person's".
    • 3/5
      I keep reading these books because I enjoy the characters. However, the stories are pretty predictable.
    • 4/5
      Billions in oil and gas royalties earmarked for the native American nations are missing and a federal agent investigating the case is killed in cold blood on the Navajo reservation. Navajo Police Sergeant Jim Chee tries to investigate the murder, but is strangely stifled by the FBI. Meanwhile Chee’s former cohort Bernie Manualito, now with the Border Patrol, stumbles across an unusual ranch that her boss wants left well enough alone.As these seemingly disparate cases connect tighter to each other and to Washington, Chee and Manualito find that the oil, gas and royalty monies are not the only things flowing through the region.This book, the 16th in the series, is less steeped in Navajo culture than Hillerman's previous works and is not quite as enjoyable as others in the series. Even so, the Western landscape is lushly described and becomes an integral character in this novel.

    Book preview

    The Sinister Pig - Tony Hillerman

    1

    David Slate reached across the tiny table in Bistro Bis and handed an envelope to the graying man with the stiff burr haircut.

    You are now Carl Mankin, Slate said. You are newly retired from the Central Intelligence Agency. You are currently employed as a consultant for Seamless Weld. Along with your new credit card, Carl, that envelope holds a lot of authentic-looking stuff from Seamless. Business cards, expense account forms—that sort of material. But the credit card should cover any expenses.

    Carl Mankin, the burr-haired man said, inspecting the card. And a Visa card. ‘Carl Mankin’ should be easy to remember. And by next Tuesday, I actually will be newly retired from the CIA. He was older than middle age, well past sixty, but trim, sunburned, and young look ing. He sorted through the papers from the envelope and smiled at Slate. However, I don’t seem to find a contract in here, he said.

    Slate laughed. And I’ll bet you didn’t expect to find one, either. The senator works on the old-fashioned ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ contract. You know, ‘Your word’s as good as your bond.’ That sounds odd here in Washington these days, but some of the old-timers still like to pretend there is honor alive among the political thieves.

    Remind me of what that word is, then, the new Carl Mankin said. As I remember it, you buy my time for thirty days, or until the job is done. Or failing that, I tell you it can’t be done. And the pay is fifty thousand dollars, either way it works out.

    And expenses, Slate said. But the credit card should cover that unless you’re paying somebody to tell you something. He chuckled. Somebody who doesn’t accept a Visa card.

    Carl Mankin put everything back into the envelope, and the envelope on the table beside his salad plate. Who actually pays the credit card bill? I noticed my Carl Mankin address is in El Paso, Texas.

    That’s the office of Seamless Weld, Slate said. The outfit you’re working for.

    The senator owns it? That doesn’t sound likely.

    It isn’t likely. It’s one of the many subsidiaries of Searigs Corporation, and that, so I understand, is partly owned and totally controlled by A.G.H. Industries.

    Searigs? That’s the outfit that built the offshore-drilling platforms for Nigeria, said Carl Mankin. Right?

    And in the North Sea, Slate said. For the Norwegians. Or was it the Swedish?

    Owned by the senator?

    Of course not. Searigs is part of A.G.H. Industries. What are you getting at, anyway?

    I am trying to get at who I am actually working for.

    Slate sipped his orange juice, grinned at Carl Mankin, said: You surely don’t think anyone would have told me that, do you?

    I think you could guess. You’re the senator’s chief administrative aide, his picker of witnesses for the committees he runs, his doer of undignified deeds, his maker of deals with the various lobbyists— Mankin laughed. And need I say it, his finder of other guys like me to run the senator’s errands with somebody else paying the fee. So I surely do think you could make an accurate guess. But would you tell me if you did?

    Slate smiled. Probably not. And I am almost certain you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

    In which case, I should probably make sure to get my pay in advance.

    Slate nodded. Exactly. When we finish lunch, and you pay for it with your new Visa card, we’ll go down to the bank I use. We transfer forty-nine thousand five hundred dollars into Carl Mankin’s account there, and I present you the deposit slip.

    And the other five hundred?

    Slate got out his wallet, extracted a deposit slip, and handed it to Carl Mankin. It showed a Carl Mankin account opened the previous day with a five-hundred-dollar deposit. Mankin put it in his shirt pocket, then took it out and laid it on the table.

    An account opened for an imaginary man without his signature. I didn’t know that could be done.

    Slate laughed. It’s easy if the proper vice president calls down from upstairs and says do it.

    We need to be clear about this, Mankin said. You want me to go out to that big Four Corners oil patch in New Mexico, look it over, see if I can find out how the pipeline system out there was used—and maybe still is being used—to bypass paying royalty money into the Interior Department’s trust fund for the Indians. Does that about summarize the job?

    Slate nodded.

    That’s a big part of it. The most important information of all is the names of those switching the stuff around so the money for it goes into the right pockets. And who owns the pockets.

    "And the senator understands that this is likely to produce nothing. I presume it is one of a whole bunch of ways he’s looking for some way to pin the blame, or the corruption, on somebody for that four- or five-billion-dollar loss of royalty money from the Tribal Trust Funds. The one the Washington Post has been writing about for the past month. The one the Secretary of Interior and the Bureau of Indian Affairs honchos are in trouble over."

    Slate was grinning again. Was that intended as a question? What do the press secretaries say to questions like that? He slipped into a serious, disapproving expression. We never comment on speculation.

    The newspapers say that this ripping off the four billion or so of Tribal royalty money has been going on for more than fifty years. And they’re quoting the government bean counters. Right? I can’t see much hope of me finding anything new.

    It’s not a mere four billion dollars, Slate said. The Government Accounting Office estimated the amount not accounted for may be as high as forty billion. And the law firm for the tribes is now claiming the U.S. gov has stacked up a debt of a hundred and thirty-seven billion bucks on royalties dating back to 1887. I guess what the senator wants to know is if the stealing persists.

    And he bets somebody’s fifty grand that I’ll be lucky enough to find out.

    His friends in the State Department tell him you did a great job finding out how Iraqi oil people switched pipelines to avoid those United Nations’ sanctions on exporting their oil. I guess he just wants you to do it again.

    It’s a very different story out there, Carl Mankin said. In the Middle East oil patch you had a small bunch of greasy old pipeline experts surrounded by various groups of Arabs. The Arabs weren’t really members of the Brit-American petroleum club. Which I was. Everybody knew everybody’s business. After twenty years in and out of there, I was just another one of them. People talked to me. I got sneaked into pipeline switching stations, got to see pressure gauges—all the technical stuff. Out in New Mexico, I’ll just be a damned nosey stranger.

    Slate was studying him. He grinned. In New Mexico, you’ll be Carl Mankin. Right? All this making apologies in advance for not finding anything useful means you’re signing on?

    Oh, sure. I guess so, he said. He folded the deposit slip into his wallet, took out the Carl Mankin Visa card, signaled to the waiter, and then handed the card to him when the waiter came to the table.

    A symbolic action, Slate said, and laughed.

    One more thought I want to pass along, he said. What little chance I have out there of picking up any useful information would be multiplied many times over if I had a clearer idea, a more specific idea, of what he wants.

    Just the truth, Slate said. Nothing but the truth.

    Yeah, Carl Mankin said. But I’m entertaining all kinds of thoughts. For example, why connect me directly with this Texas construction outfit? Seamless Weld. Sounds like something in the pipelining business. Does the senator own it?

    I’m sure he wouldn’t, said Slate. It will be owned by some corporation that is part of a conglomerate in which the senator has a substantial interest. If he actually owned Seamless Weld on any public record, he’d be way too sly to get it involved.

    They were on the sidewalk now, hailing a cab, a warm breeze moving dust along the street, the smell of rain in the air.

    So why stick me with that company? And don’t tell me it’s to make my expenses tax deductible. What’s the reason?

    A cab stopped for them. Slate opened the door, ushered Mankin in, seated himself, gave the driver the bank’s address, settled back, and said: Looks like rain.

    I’m waiting for an answer, Mankin said. And it’s not just out of curiosity. I’m going to be asking a lot of questions, and that means I’ll have to answer a lot of them myself. I can’t afford to be caught lying."

    OK, Slate said. He took a little silver cigarette box out of his coat pocket, opened it, offered one to Mankin, took one himself, looked at it, put it back in the box, and said: Well, I guess you know that everyone in this town has at least two agendas. The public one, and their own personal causes. Right?

    Mankin nodded.

    OK, then. Let’s say you called your broker and asked him who owned Seamless Weld. He’d call you back in a few days and tell you it was a subsidiary of Searigs Inc. And you’d say, who owns Searigs, and after the proper period for checking, he’d tell you the principal stockholder was A.G.H. Industries Inc. And the answer to your next question is that the majority stock holder in A.G.H. is a trust, the affairs of which are entrusted to a Washington law firm, and the law firm lists four partners, one of whom is Mr. Rawley Winsor of Washington, D.C. End of answer.

    I’ve heard that name. But who is Rawley Winsor?

    No genuine Washington insider would have to ask that, Slate said. "Nor would anyone on Wall Street. Rawley Winsor is . . . How do I start? He’s a many-generations blue blood, echelons of high society, Princeton, then Harvard Law, famous Capitol deal doer, fund-raisers, top-level runner of lobby campaigns, and might make the top of Fortune magazine’s most-wealthy list if his investments weren’t so carefully hidden."

    So if I was free to speculate, I might guess that your senator is either doing a deal for this Winsor plutocrat, or seeking a way to link him with evildoing. For example, maybe finding how to prove this guy is getting a slice of the suspected rip-off of tribal royalty funds. Or maybe a way for the senator to get his own cut of that graft.

    Slate laughed. I am not free to comment on speculation.

    But if he is so incredibly rich, why go to all this trouble for what must be just small change for him?

    Joy of the game, maybe, Slate said. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe Winsor just can’t stand seeing some other power broker getting easy money that he’s not sharing. Right now, for example, everybody knows he’s running the lobby against a bill to legalize medical use of marijuana. Why? Because he’s afraid it would lead to legalizing drugs—making them government licensed, taxed, et cetera. Why is he against that? Lot of people are, because it has proven to be a counterproductive waste of public money. But that wouldn’t be Winsor’s motive. Nobody knows what that is. Not for sure. But we Washington cynics think it’s because he has a finger in the narcotics import trade. Legalizing and licensing knocks out the profits. Government sells it at fixed prices, grows it in the farm belt, taxes the hell out of it. No more recruiting of new addicts by your teenaged salesmen, no more knife fights and gun battles for market territory. Slate sighed. Not that any of that matters.

    Come on, now, Mankin said. This guy is a multibillionaire. Dabbling in the drug trade isn’t just a fun competition. I can’t believe he’d be that dumb.

    Probably not, Slate said. Maybe it’s psychological. My wife has three pet cats. One of them will eat all he can hold, and then stand guard at the bowl to keep the other two from having their dinner. Snarl, and claw to fight ’em off. Are humans smarter than cats?

    Mankin nodded. You know any farmyard French?

    Just English for me, Slate said.

    "Anyway, French farmers have a phrase for the boss pig in the sty—the one that would guard the trough and attack any animal that tried to steal a bite. Translate it to French and it’s porc sinistre. We used to use that for Saddam—for trying to take Iran’s oil fields when he had more oil than he could use, and then invading Kuwait for the same reason."

    ’Sinister pig,’ right? Slate asked. "But isn’t it cochon sinistre. I think that makes a better insult. And it would fit Rawley Winsor, from what I hear about him."

    That lunch and conversation had been on Monday. The newly named Carl Mankin called his wife to tell her he’d be going to New Mexico for several days. Then he took a taxi to the Department of Energy, called on the proper friend, and collected the information he needed about who managed which pipelines and the ebb and flow, sales and resales, of oil and gas in and out of the San Juan Basin fields. He left the building with his pocket recorder full of notes about the San Juan Basin fields—about nineteen hundred oil, gas, and methane wells actively producing in just the New Mexico section of that field, and drilling rigs adding new ones every year, with geologists estimating that more than a hundred trillion cubic feet of gas is under the rocks there, and about twenty different oil, gas, and pipeline companies fighting for a share of the treasure. Making the job look even more impossible, his notes confirmed what he’d guessed would be true. The records kept by the Department of the Interior were in shambles, and had been a total mess dating back as far as his sources had looked—which was into the 1940s. It was hopeless, he thought, but for fifty thousand dollars whether he learned anything or not, it would be an interesting project.

    And now it was two Mondays later. He was about fifteen hundred miles west of the chic Bistro Bis of the Hotel George and Washington’s E Street. He was sitting in a Jeep Cherokee beside a dirt road at the fringe of the Bisti Oil-Gas field, close to where the Jicarilla Apache reservation meets the Navajo Nation in the very heart of America’s version of the Persian Gulf—the San Juan Basin.

    More important, Carl Mankin had just realized he was being followed—and that this had been going on since the evening after he’d left the Seamless Weld office in El Paso in the rental Jeep. It was a bad feeling for Carl Mankin. He’d learned how to spot a tail more than thirty years ago in Lebanon, taught by an old CIA hand in the Beirut embassy. He’d practiced the skill of being invisible in Iraq when Saddam and his Republican Guards were fighting the Iranians as our Cold War ally. He’d used it again when Saddam was becoming our Desert Storm enemy, and refined it to perfection in Yemen, where the Al Qaeda was plotting its terrorism. He had become very good at knowing who was walking behind him.

    But two lazy years in Washington must have made him careless. Across the street from the Seamless Weld office he’d seen the man now tailing him, noticing him because he wore a forked beard and not because Mankin suspected anything. He saw him again when he came out of the FBI office in Gallup—in a car in the parking lot. He’d seen that forked beard a third time a few minutes ago, the face of a man sitting on the passenger side of a Dodge pickup reflected in the rearview mirror of the Jeep Cherokee Mankin was driving.

    Three sightings at three very different locations were too many for coincidence. Of course, the man had to be a rank amateur. No professional would wear such a memorable beard. Probably no danger involved here. Why would there be danger? It would just be someone wanting to know why a stranger was looking into a very lucrative and competitive business. But those old instincts of caution Mankin developed working in enemy territory had abruptly revived. The man had gotten on his trail at Seamless Weld in El Paso. How? Or why?

    One isn’t followed for love and kindness. Perhaps the senator, or whomever the senator was working for, connected him to Seamless because they suspected that company was involved in the corruption. Thus that would be the place to start him looking for connections.

    He watched the pickup roll past on the road just below him, Forked Beard out of his line of vision. Its driver, a younger man wearing a blue baseball cap, glanced at the Cherokee and quickly looked away. Just the sort of thing professionals were taught never to do.

    Carl Mankin waited, listening to the pickup moving slowly down the dirt road, hearing the crows quarreling in the pines and the sounds of the breeze in the trees. Relaxing. Feeling the old familiar tension slip away. He stepped out of the Jeep, listening. The crows left. The breeze faded. Mankin held his breath. Silence. How could the truck have gotten out of hearing range so quickly? Perhaps in a thicker patch of forest. Perhaps down a slope.

    Some of the tension had returned now, but Mankin had driven two hours to reach this place. The metal structure across the road from him, so he’d been told by the driver of a Haliburton repair truck, was a pipeline junction switching point. A lot of work going on out there, the man had said. Installing some new measurement stuff and a bigger compressor. Why the hell would they be doing that? I couldn’t guess.

    Mankin couldn’t guess either. But the new measurement stuff suggested a possibility that maybe the old measurements had been less than accurate, and maybe that had been intentional, to cover up some cheating on the records, and maybe

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